The Wilding Affair 2 : Blood Reign
by Kei
Summary: When Illya disappears on a rescue mission, Napoleon and team go on a search, but they discover an old horror waiting for them.


**THE MAN FROM U.N.C.L.E. :**

"**The Wilding Affair 2: Blood Reign" **(2001)

**by Kei**

**Rating: M**

_The Man From UNCLE characters belong to MGM -I'm just borrowing them, and no profit is being made. Please don't sue me -I'm still poor._

_Note: This is a sequel to "The Wilding Affair"_

**DECEMBER 19, 6:00 A.M.:**

"I do not like it."

"I'm sure you don't."

"It is hardly fair."

A slight, warm smile turned the corners of a fondly amused Napoleon Solo's lips at the curiously petulant tone that had crept into Illya Kuryakin's voice. Normally, the staid Russian agent kept his feelings to himself, but _this_ time... The senior UNCLE agent turned onto his side, the bed creaking slightly, and pressed a kiss onto the soft, scowling lips of his partner. "My, my... Can it be that you are _pouting_, Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin?"

"**_I_** do not pout," came the muttered retort -Napoleon had to note that there was a suspicious twinkle in the crystalline eyes despite the stubborn set to Illya's full mouth. "I am simply pointing out that after the effort you went through, it does not seem right that we have to give up our plans just like that."

"So, _milok_, since when is life supposed to be fair, hmn?"

"Or UNCLE, for that matter?"

"_Especially_ UNCLE sometimes."

U.N.C.L.E. -the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement, international spy agency anti-terrorist organization and habitual disrupter of the well thought-out private plans of one Napoleon Solo. He and his reticent Russian partner had been a couple for less than a month, and though as partners in UNCLE they had spent the holidays together on assignment, he had wanted this year to be different.

Special.

He had had it all planned -reserved first-class seats on the new class of Concorde on a flight to Paris, some romantic quiet time (Illya would want to play tourist, no doubt), opening presents in their hotel room on Christmas morning, and then...

...and **then** Waverly had "asked" (to put it politely) if Solo would head an UNCLE security team providing protection for a visiting dignitary in Botswana. And where was _their_ usual team leader? **He** was on Christmas vacation.

Napoleon found himself suspecting the Old Man of a real mean streak.

"It'll only be a week," Solo promised. "A milk-run to make a political friend of UNCLE happy. Back before you know it." The elder agent saw a dangerous glint begin to form in his silent lover's ice-blue eyes. "I'll make it up to you on New Year's. Promise."

"_Nyet_."

"'No?'"

The glint had become a blaze as a barely suppressed smile turned Kuryakin's lips. He suddenly pulled Solo closer. "I am thinking you will make it up to me **now**."

"Hoo boy..."

**DECEMBER 21, 9:05 A.M.:**

"I must apologize for having called you in from your vacation on such short notice, Mr. Kuryakin."

A thin wheaten eyebrow arched upwards beneath a stray lock of bright blonde hair as Illya Kuryakin took a seat before the expansive executive desk of UNCLE's Number One of Section One -Alexander Waverly. An apology -from Alexander Waverly? For anything?? A surge of decidedly uncharacteristic panic began to well up in Kuryakin's chest. Apologetic? Napoleon... Maybe the "milk-run" had gone sour and -but no. If it had been **that**, Waverly would have had the courtesy to come to his apartment and tell him such bad news face to face as he had for other partners. **What** then?

As if in answer to the Russian's unvoiced question, Waverly sighed aloud and spoke. "We have a..._unique_ situation, Mr. Kuryakin. Please listen to this." Waverly pushed a button and a voice, crackling and distorted by static, came from Waverly's desk speaker.

"This is...Antarctic Sta...calling...This...THRUSH Antarctica calling UN...we need ...need your help...danger...something...it is killing...only...three...us left ... please ...help...This is THRUSH...base...Antarcti..." The recorded message ended there.

"You intercepted a transmission from THRUSH."

"No, Mr. Kuryakin -that message was **not **merely intercepted. It was sent _directly _to UNCLE. There is no mistake."

Illya's brow creased in puzzlement and disbelief. "Then I...do not understand, sir. _Why _would THRUSH send an S.O.S. to UNCLE rather than to THRUSH Central -and this warning? Could it not be a trap?"

"That is what I'm hoping that you will be able to learn, Mr. Kuryakin." Waverly slid a thin file across the desk's smooth surface to the Russian agent who accepted it silently. "We learned of this particular THRUSH base only recently and, since the transmission, have been unable to re-establish contact. Because of your experience and training in cold weather tactics, you will be leading the reconnaissance team that will check out this curious situation, keeping in mind that even if the message _was _meant only for UNCLE's ears, it is a certainty that THRUSH Central **will **eventually notice that one of their bases is no longer maintaining contact."

Kuryakin nodded in immediate comprehension. "A very unstable window of opportunity. Do we have any information on the nature of their operations?"

"Yes, Mr. Kuryakin, we do. They were experimenting in the area of bio-weapons."

Illya could not suppress his sigh of dismay.

**DECEMBER 24, 11:57 P.M.:**

"Sir! We have a transmission from Mr. Kuryakin!"

Alexander Waverly moved with a speed that belied his years and slammed a fist on the "receive" button of the communicator on his desk. "Mr. Kuryakin!" Static, a heavy electronic rushing and squealing sound, answered him. "Mr. Kuryakin -report!"

More static...and then... "Kuryakin...report...Agents Porter, Clarke...Davidson dead...only self and...remain...It came...no...description is... possible...Do not ...repeat...DO NOT...send...help...It will kill..." The signal went dead. There was no static. Just silence.

Waverly's knuckles bunched until they bled white -he swallowed deeply and met the equally worried eyes of his chief assistant. "Ms. Rogers...contact Napoleon Solo. Tell him that he is to return to headquarters -at once."

**DECEMBER 26, 4:30 A.M.:**

Alone.

He was alone but not alone.

The screaming had stopped long ago, but not so long ago that he did not still hear it...in his ears...in his head...along with the insistent whisper in his brain that he needed to hear those sounds again.

Those awful, wonderful sounds -and the fear behind them.

But it was quiet now.

Too quiet.

A slight smile crossed blood-stained lips. Quiet, yes, but not for long. That much he knew.

Not for long at all.

"Coffee?"

"Hmn?"

"Coffee, Napoleon? Hot coffee?"

The faint ghost of a smile crossed Napoleon Solo's grim visage as the dark-haired agent shook his head slightly, declining his team-mate's offer. "No, thank you, April...maybe later." He caught sight of the frown of concern that the younger agent cast to her partner, Mark Slate, who shrugged in return. Neither UNCLE agent was experienced enough to hide the fact that they were as worried about their superior's state of mind as they were about the potential dangers of this mission. A talkative, self-assured Napoleon Solo was normal -an uncommunicative, and frankly _dispirited_, Solo was not. They were among the few who knew that Solo's concern for the well-being of his partner was far more intimately personal than it was professional.

That had been Waverly's only real concern upon learning of Solo and Kuryakin's new, more intimate relationship -that personal concern for one or the other might interfere with their ability to function professionally. It hadn't. But upon being recalled to UNCLE New York -upon being told _why_- Napoleon had been tempted to have a very **un**professional emotional meltdown. He had never liked it when he and Illya had occasionally been sent on separate missions before they had become lovers. Now, he liked it even less.

A reconnaissance mission to possibly hostile territory was bad enough -a recon mission obviously gone all wrong for reasons that were frighteningly familiar was infinitely worse. THRUSH was still working on bio-weapons -they all knew that now- and the memories of UNCLE's last encounter with that terrorist group's efforts at germ warfare were still fresh.

Then, his partner had been one of the fortunate few left unaffected by a madness -inducing supervirus, but what about _this _time? "'It came...no description is ...possible,'" Illya had said in his last transmission to New York. "'DO NOT send help.'" Those didn't sound like the words of a sane man. Was THRUSH playing with the "Wilding" virus again? Do not send help..? Even if Waverly had not ordered the new search and rescue mission, Napoleon Solo knew that he could not have sat idle. It wasn't his nature...and, fortunately, it wasn't apparently the nature of UNCLE's Number One either -as he had put it, Kuryakin was not the only UNCLE agent who might be in trouble.

Things after that had moved fast, and after some careful (though understandably hurried) preparations, Recon Team Two was sent after their own. Besides himself, April Dancer, and Mark Slate, the arctic landrover in which they crossed the nearly colorless ice and snow-ridden tundra also carried two members of UNCLE New York's biotechnics' corps: Dr. Miranda Brewer -physician and diagnostician, and Dr. Edward Cruise, biologist and forensic scientist. Jimmy Logan, barely more than a youth and only just having been promoted to field operative status, had been given the dull task of serving as the team's primary landrover jockey.

"Penguins."

The sudden utterance broke the relative stillness as Napoleon glanced at Mark who shrugged and returned his attention to April who continued to stare out through the tinted windows. "April?" Mark ventured. "_What_ penguins, luv? I don't see any-"

"That's just it," the young female agent insisted. "Something's been bothering me at the back of my mind for a while and that's it! Penguins -Antarctica usually teems with them -as well as God knows how many sea lions and others- but when we were set down here, I only saw one or two penguins...and for the past few hours, nothing at all! Have _you?_"

Solo watched the two junior operatives natter back and forth about a lack of waddling seabirds -it would have been funny except, he noted silently, Drs. Brewer and Cruise had also noted the conversation...and they didn't appear amused. If anything, the medical staff looked all the more worried.

Four hours later and the Antarctic was dark for this time of year. Clouds had covered the already hazy sun and a shrill wind had begun to blow, whipping up ancient snows. No doubt, new snow would soon follow despite the fact that this should have been Antarctica's equivalent of summer. The static discharge of an oncoming polar storm was already playing havoc with the communicators.

The arctic landrover pulled to a stop. The UNCLE agents' destination, a dome-like structure of concrete, plexi-glass, and steel about the size of an average concert hall, stood not a meter off, seemingly unmolested by the "it" of which their missing Russian comrade had spoken. Two other arctic landrovers -one apparently belonging to THRUSH, one definitely belonging to UNCLE- remained idle and snow-covered beside an open garage. Mark quickly examined both vehicles. "They - they've both been sabotaged, Napoleon! Their engines have been gutted!"

"'Do not send help,'" Illya had said, Napoleon remembered grimly. If he knew his partner well, demented or not, "do not send help" might also mean "because no-one can leave"...and if so, his little Russian might have been willing to make certain of that. All right...

Hoping that promises of the improved designs of their environmental suits were not exaggerated, Napoleon Solo, UNCLE's Chief Enforcement Officer, nodded to Agent Logan whose expertise was in munitions and explosives.

"Blow the door."

The explosion shook UNCLE's reconnaissance team and sent bits of ice and snow raining down from the Spartan structure, but did no more and no less damage than had been intended -the scorched, mangled lock fell off and the door slid open with a groan. Napoleon wondered if the others were thinking the same thing as he -that even a minor blast like that would usually have sent someone running -to escape or attack. THRUSH begging for UNCLE's help aside, they were not a group to accept destruction of their property quietly...assuming that anyone was there ...alive... Solo suppressed a shudder -too many questions and even more ugly possibilities- and he cared less and less for the direction his thoughts were taking. Irrational as the notion was, he was sure that he would know if his partner hadn't made it -he had to believe that or he might crack.

"All right, people," Solo said as the last of the fallout littered the snow-covered ground, "quiet reception, but exercise extreme caution. We have a very limited window of operations. Move in."

**DECEMBER 26, 5:27 P.M.:**

"Crikey..." The word escaped Mark Slate as a feeble whisper, his gloved hand clasping his UNCLE Special all the more tightly. Despite April's earlier observations about Antarctic fauna, he hadn't expected to see or hear anything out there in that frozen wasteland, but he _had _expected there to be _someone _-whether THRUSH or UNCLE- here...alive or dead. But there was no-one here. **No-one**. And yet, there **had **to have been. The evidence was all around him -an overturned coffee cup here, a THRUSH uniform laid out on a bed, the picture of someone's family on an unkempt desk (he had even found an UNCLE communicatior lost -or was it discarded- among the refuse that crackled beneath his feet), but _no_-_one._

"Mark -anything?"

Slate frowned at the sound of Solo's voice coming from his pen communicator -the polar magnetic fields were playing hob with the reception. It sounded like they had a bad phone connection. "I haven't clapped eyes on anyone or anything. It's like they all just did a scarper after turning the place into a rubble heap."

"Logan?"

"No, sir, but there **must **have been a fight or something in this section. Looks like blood on the walls -could be human."

"April?"

"I'm with Brewer and Cruise, Napoleon -we've found the labs, but..."

"_But_..." Solo prompted.

"There's no sign of experimentation of **any **kind -it's as if the area has been scoured clean. No tubes, samples -nothing. All security cameras have been ripped out of the walls. Someone sure made certain that we wouldn't find anything."

Or _anyone_, Solo thought. Labs like this usually had powerful furnaces where biohazardous material could be destroyed...even bodies...but if that was the case, why call for help at all? Why..? April Dancer's voice seemed to fade into the back of his perceptions. Something... Dark eyes narrowed. He had seen... He _thought_ he had seen...something. Could have been his senses playing tricks on him and yet... Wait! There! This time, instead of a half-seen image out of the corner of his eye, Napoleon Solo saw something -this time, he was sure of it. A shadow, no, a solid figure, darted from one dark recess to another, almost faster than the senior UNCLE agent could follow.

But not quite.

Almost immediately, the littered corridor resounded with the pounding of the UNCLE agent's shod footfalls as he raced after the darkly-clothed form that even now attempted to use the shadows as cover as it ran silently as if on bare feet, a shock of wildly tousled blond hair sticking out from under a woolen cap that did not hide the familiar face. Solo pulled himself to a halt and almost desperately, in his most authoritative voice, boomed out: "**Agent Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin!** **You will stop this instant!**"

Napoleon gasped aloud at the sight of the dark figure as he stopped in his tracks, slowly turned, and met his gaze.

Pale, haunted eyes stared from a blood and dirt-smeared face. No -not just _haunted_. That didn't even come close to what Solo saw. The expression in Illya Kuryakin's eyes was closer to one of terror and confusion. Madness? What the hell had truly happened here? "Illya..._lyubov_..." Napoleon said gently, _carefully_, hoping to get through to the one he trusted..._loved _more than anyone. "Illyusha...it's **me**,_milok_ -your _Napasha_. You **know **me, don't you?" Then, softer: "Don't you?" Just then, the pale troubled eyes hardened to points of blue steel and the Russian UNCLE agent whipped out a hidden Walther PPK- "NO!" -and fired...

...and as Napoleon threw himself to the floor, the fired bullet hit exactly where it had been aimed -and the blood-smeared knife that would have been imbedded in Napoleon's back, flew from its owner's hand. Solo looked up to find that his lover had sunken to the floor and was brokenly crooning some Russian lullaby as he mindlessly rocked himself back and forth. Ignoring the gruesome sight of the now faceless, blood-splattered body, Napoleon crawled to Illya's side and held him tightly. "It's all right, _milok_...I've got you, love. I've got you."

"And **we **have **you**, Mr. Solo."

Time had run out.

The window of safety had closed.

Napoleon Solo cursed himself as he carefully met the slate-grey eyes of the man who held a wicked-looking semi-automatic of THRUSH design on him, his own weapon kicked aside. THRUSH -the UNCLE agent had always known that THRUSH would come onto the scene eventually -there was no real surprise there- but so soon...**too** soon. Two other THRUSH goons (he supposed that they considered themselves soldiers) wearing heavy arctic gear, were holding their weapons on April Dancer and Drs. Brewer and Cruise. Odd. Not wearing environmental suits...and where were-- "Did you find anyone else!" _Grey-eyes_ demanded.

"No, Mr. Borodin -these seem to be the lot."

"Sir!" One of the THRUSH heavies had knelt down beside the bloodied body. "I know this man, sir -by his ring...must be Llewelyn from the ice-core crew. He was one of ours!"

"Very well, Tobias." Borodin's mouth pulled into a tense thin line. "So...Mr. Solo ...what should I do with you? UNCLE agents trespassing on THRUSH sovereign soil...and _this _one-" he said, waving his gun in a dazed Illya Kuryakin's direction. "So obviously the killer -perhaps of **all **the people here. _Scientists_, Solo -not even soldiers- and UNCLE invades our territory and kills--"

"For _your _information, _Mr. _Borodin," Solo hissed. "_Your_ people called **us**." Despite himself, the leader of the THRUSH reconnaissance team flinched, seemingly more than a little rocked by that bit of information. Pressing the momentary advantage, Solo added: "**We** received a distress call directly from this base -didn't know that, did you? Perhaps your own people were too afraid to contact you about whatever was killing them -maybe one of your 'germ' weapons run amok, _Mr. _Borodin?"

Borodin's face reddened. "Killers...There is only **one **killer here of which **I **know, Mr. Solo," he snapped, glaring at the nearly catatonic Kuryakin, "and for _your _information, I have no idea where you could have gotten the idea that we were creating biological weaponry here! This is a low-security research station for the securing of ice-core samples for the study of rare minerals -there are **no **bio-weapons here! Do you think us foolish enough to enter this base without protective gear were such things on the premises!"

For a long moment, Napoleon found that he could not answer because, despite himself, something about what his opponent said rang true and yet... The moment stretched on as both senior agents, one UNCLE and one THRUSH, locked eyes, trying to divine who was telling the truth, but the seemingly endless space in time was suddenly shattered by a blood-curdling cry as THRUSH agent Tobias suddenly leapt to his feet, Uzi submachine gun drawn. "YOU killed him!" he shrieked, eyes almost literally blazing with rage. "UNCLE **_bastards_ **-**_YOU_** killed Llewelyn!"

A single shot rang out...

...and the THRUSH henchman stopped in his tracks, blind outrage giving way to a blank expression of astonishment as a stain of bright liquid red bloomed from his left shoulder to begin to trail down his chest...and he collapsed to the cold floor. Immediately, the men from THRUSH grasped their weapons, ready to return fire when: "**Ah!** Ah...ah! Naughty, naughty! We _won't _be having any of that, shall we?" said a mocking voice with its familiar British accent as first, Mark Slate and then Jimmy Logan emerged from their hiding places. "Guns **DOWN**, mates."

Borodin hesitated. "You hardly have us at an advantage, sir. We are two to _your _two -equal odds."

"Not quite." Napoleon Solo stood up, deliberately putting his body between his enemies and Illya -the senior UNCLE agent was holding and aiming Tobias' Uzi. "**We **have **you **surrounded at three **very **advantageous angles -do you care to try your chances?"

"I see." Borodin lowered his gun and motioned his remaining man to do the same. He met the senior UNCLE agent eye to eye. "I am neither a gambling man nor a fool -so, for now, may I suggest a truce? We both have wounded who require immediate care and I suspect that it would be to our mutual advantage to discuss certain matters." Slate-grey eyes glanced through thick windows at an even greyer sky. "Besides, it may well be that we will have to share each other's company for quite some time."

**DECEMBER 27, 12:53 A.M.:**

"I don't understand."

Dr. Brewer pursed her lips in frustration, drying red-brown stains on her medical smock a testament to useless effort. She glanced at THRUSH agent Pavel Borodin who sat silently nursing a luke-warm mug of tea, and then returned her attention to UNCLE's Number One Section Two. "It doesn't make sense to me either, Lee," she said to Napoleon with a weary sigh. "Tobias' wound wasn't all that severe -though our present facilities are limited, Dr. Cruise and I _were _able to repair the damage...but the man died. Blood pressure went through the roof despite our best efforts...heart pumped like that of a hummingbird -it was as if he was pumped full of pure adrenaline and burned out. If I didn't know better, I'd say he died from sheer terror."

"And..." Solo swallowed deeply, struggling to maintain a stoic facade of which his partner would have been proud. "And Mr. Kuryakin's condition?"

"Apart from mild hypothermia and minor dehydration, there is nothing really physically wrong with him. I'm hoping that he will waken from this withdrawn state on his own. As for what caused it however--" Brewer was forced to shrug. "We will have to wait until he comes to and can be debriefed."

"My man--" Borodin interrupted. "I expect that you will prepare his body so that THRUSH doctors may perform an autopsy."

Brewer shot Napoleon a questioning look -Napoleon returned the look and then nodded grimly. "As you wish," she retorted icily to the THRUSH leader. "Lee..?"

"Keep me informed of Mr. Kuryakin's condition...and take care of him." Napoleon watched as the UNCLE physician made her exit, leaving himself and his equivalent in THRUSH alone. There had been other times, long before friendship had grown into intimate love, that he had found himself at his injured partner's side, comforting him as best he could and he wanted to be there now...to stay there with Illya until he could be sure that he was well and safe.

But he couldn't.

There were too many questions to which he had to find answers and he found that he had come to the unavoidable realization that some of that knowledge would have to come from the man who sat across from him now.

"You are concerned for your lover, _nyet_?"

"I don't--"

"Please, Mr. Solo," Borodin said with a dismissive gesture of his hand, "do not insult my intelligence by denying it. THRUSH has suspected this for some time now and _known _it before **you **did. Had we believed UNCLE policies to be the sort not to accept your relationship, we might have had an exceptional opportunity for blackmail, but..." He shrugged. "As it is, it is simply useless information, good only for the trivia section of our monthly THRUSH newspaper."

With some difficulty, Solo squelched the urge to wipe the smirk off Borodin's face. "Useless information? As useless as the information you've given me so far."

"Mr. Solo..." Borodin leaned forward slightly. "I suggested only that we might have matters to discuss -not that I had some secrets to impart. We of THRUSH may follow a different philosophy, but we **do **have other pursuits than tangling with UNCLE. This base, as I indicated, was for the purpose of gathering rare mineral deposits for scientific curiosity only. As for what happened to your people and mine, I cannot say -except, of course, for Llewelyn whom **your **man killed."

"And you're satisfied with not knowing?"

Borodin leaned back against his chair. "Mr. Solo, it is a well-known fact that few humans can endure life in these climes with their sanity intact and **I **am satisfied that when the weather permits, if we wish to maintain this temporary truce, that UNCLE will vacate THRUSH territory and allow THRUSH to determine the exact nature of this unfortunate imbroglio **ourselves**." He stood up. "And for

now -I tire. Perhaps we will continue this discussion in the morning."

Napoleon noted his enemy's smile -he had never seen one half as cold.

**DECEMBER 27, 3:20 A.M.:**

"God -NO!"

Napoleon Solo woke with a strangled cry, his heart beating a violent tattoo. "Dammit..." It had been a mistake to have agreed that he needed sleep -he had suspected what he would find in the realm of his subconscious and he had not been mistaken. Even as the mental ghosts faded, he could still remember images of hands closing around some struggling, faceless figure's throat, _feel _the terror that came from the phantom victim in waves...and know, that in that dream, the crushing hands had been his own. Yes...he had suspected the likelihood of nightmares, but like that..? What--

There was a low, metallic creak and the door to Solo's temporary quarters inched open. Even as he carefully began to draw out his personal side-arm, a slight silent figure appeared in the resultant shaft of light. "Illya..?" There was no answer. "How did you -what are you doing out of the infirmary..?" Still no answer -just a disconcerting quiet as the lithe blond figure slowly drew closer and almost hesitantly sat on the edge of the cot, at Solo's side, crystalline eyes piercing even in the semi-darkness. Soft lips gently brushed over Solo's, silently _hesitantly _asking permission. Puzzled, Napoleon nonetheless reached for the strangely taciturn being that was his partner, fingers drawing gently through strands of gold. "Illya...you're not... You shouldn't be out of..." Protests faded to silence, loneliness and longing refusing to be denied, as clothes were shed and skin met skin in passion.

When Napoleon woke again, another hour had passed, and he half-expected to have to dismiss the love he and his partner had made as yet another mental phantasm, but no...a familiar, warm body lay curled up beside him, one arm draped over his chest. "Illya..?" Ice-blue eyes looked up and met his own. "Do you know what happened here?" The blond head nodded slowly and a small voice was heard. "..._da_..." Solo gently massaged a lean arm. "Tell me." Just then, the keening wail of Napoleon's communication pen sounded. Damn. "Solo here."

"It's Mark -mate, you'd better get to the lab!"

"What **is **it!"

"It's Dr. Cruise, Napoleon -someone's strangled him!"

**DECEMBER 27, 6:45 A.M.:**

"THRUSH Central, this is Antarctic Base Omega reporting -do you copy? Over. THRUSH Central, this Antarctic Base Omega reporting -we have a potential Level 1 emergency. Assistance is urgently required -do you read me? Over." The young THRUSH operative turned away from the radio console, frustration etching lines into his brow. "Nothing, sir."

"The equipment -it **_is _**working?"

"Yes, sir -but the polar fields and the static discharge from the storm are playing havoc with the system -**_nothing's _**getting through on any band."

"**_Chyort!_** Keep working at it until it _does _work, Nigel. We must not admit to the UNCLE agents that we are likely in graver danger than we might have suspected -this may have been one of the times Central was not so all-seeing."

"Yes, Mr. Borodin -I'll do it!"

Napoleon Solo drew his gaze away from the two THRUSH operatives and shook his head wearily at the conversation he had overheard. This was ridiculous. How had this mission come to the point where he had found himself secretly hoping that his enemies **did **succeed in contacting their superiors even if he couldn't contact his own? Maybe Borodin was right -maybe the climate of this part of the world _was _inclined to be so inhospitable that few could survive it with their minds intact. Such a hypothesis would explain so many things. It would explain why he had begun to experience nightmares -even though he could no longer remember the details. He knew the last one had been bad.

It would also explain why the killing had begun again.

Napoleon met his partner's eyes. Illya's expression was no longer blank or confused, but he had once again withdrawn into a silence so complete that the elder UNCLE agent found himself beginning to wonder if he had merely imagined that Illya had spoken at all. "It would appear certain that we must enjoy each others' company for longer than any of us had planned."

Solo caught the barely veiled sarcasm in Borodin's low voice as easily as he could hear the nervous edge beneath it. He was tempted to smile to finally see little cracks beginning to appear in his imperious THRUSH counterpart's all-too- smooth veneer. "It _would _seem that way."

"I would not sound so smug, Solo...or does it still escape you that since both our peoples arrived at this place, there have been three deaths, and before that -ELEVEN- of _them _several agents belonging to your own 'good' organization?" Borodin's cold grey eyes locked on the pale Russian UNCLE agent. "And I can see one killer right before me!"

Napoleon stood up sharply -he had had enough. To coin a phrase, one could literally have heard a pin drop. "Listen, _Mr. _Borodin," Solo said finally in a voice that was as cold as his anger was hot, "does it escape **you **that the tragedy that brought any of us here in the first place occurred **before **Mr. Kuryakin even arrived!"

"**That** is more than I know." The cool, contemptuous mask was back in place. "But if not him -**_who?_** There is no-one else here. And even if your man is innocent of these crimes but one, I still **insist **that he knows what happened and **why**!"

"Borodin, so help me-"

"I know."

Napoleon turned sharply -Mark and April mirrored his expression of incredulity- as a pair of ice-blue eyes peered from beneath a skewed fringe of blond hair. Solo sat down beside his partner, aware that unlike before, there was true awareness in those eyes, sharp and unconfused. Even when Illya had shared his bed only hours ago, he had sensed that something -some vital inner spark- had to be missing.

But not now.

"I know," Kuryakin said again, his voice almost a whisper. "I know what happened."

As he had before, Napoleon asked: "Tell me."

"They were dead when my team arrived...except for Llewelyn. He was dazed ...confused...but alive." Kuryakin stared at the dregs of cooling coffee in his mug before setting the cup down. For a moment, the words refused to come, a tremor growing in his hands until he felt Napoleon's firm, but gentle touch. The shaking gradually subsided. "He told us very little that made sense, but the bodies were still there. Drs. Davidson and Barret performed autopsies -there were cases of stabbing, strangulation, bludgeoning. One...even had signs of having been sexually assaulted." Illya looked up and saw that April had turned pale. "But there were others, also dead, but from no obvious injury or sickness."

"The autopsies, _tovarisch!_" Borodin snapped. "What were their conclusions?"

"That they all died of from the same cause."

"You lie! You just said-"

"Those who had been attacked were grievously injured, yes, but none to the point of death!" Cold fire blazed in Kuryakin's eyes and even through his gloves, Solo could feel the pulse within the Russian's enclosed wrist begin to race -true anger (or was it "fear"?) from one who would be damned before admitting to the emotion. He surreptitiously squeezed Illya's hand encouragingly and Kuryakin seemed to reclaim his usual control. "They suffered long, no doubt, but like the others, autopsies revealed that they, too, had actually died from extreme stimulation of the neural and cardiovascular systems."

"_Please_, mate," Mark begged. "In English."

"They were probably frightened to death." Miranda Brewer's soft voice interrupted the proceedings. "What you describe sounds like biocardio-infarctions -the heart is stimulated to the point where it just can no longer function. My preliminary examination of Dr. Cruise had shown similar signs. But why-"

"We had no idea..." Illya continued, his attention on some distant point in the room. "...no rhyme or reason except that Agent Porter discovered a daily log that indicated that incidents began to occur not long after the THRUSH team retrieved their last ice-core sample..."

"Mass insanity?" Napoleon questioned, grimly remembering experiences of only a short time ago.

"No," the Russian replied softly. "That was what was so strange -one victim after the other...no mass events. Death did not necessarily follow a violent or emotional incident -but people did eventually begin to die. " He sighed heavily. "Then the same thing began to happen to our people..."

"And _where _**is** this log, Agent Kuryakin?" Borodin demanded.

"In the furnace where waste products and toxic materials were disposed of, I suppose.There were security camera videos too...everything was burned." Illya answered wearily, the energy seeming to bleed out of him before his audience's eyes. "Along with the bodies. They were put there...but I do not remember who..."

"I somehow doubt that," the THRUSH team leader sneered. "I _suggest _that you concentrate, '_tovarisch_'-"

"That's enough."

Hard eyes of grey met eyes of dark brown ice. "_Mr_. Solo, we need to know-"

"I said," Solo snapped back, his voice even, icy, and full of menace, "_that's_ _enough_."

Borodin reached for his side-arm only to hear the cocking of three guns -those of Mark, April, and Jimmy- and all pointed in his direction. A thin smile passed across Borodin's lips. "Of course...later will do."

"Here. Drink this."

Illya Kuryakin accepted the thermal mug from his partner, hissing softly as the heated vessel met the chilled flesh of his hands, and sipped the bitter caffeinated liquid. A feathery eyebrow arched in recognition. "Stolichnaya?" he queried with a faintly incredulous smile as the definite flavor of a familiar vodka tickled his palate -Napoleon nodded. "Why would you bring-"

"We never did get to celebrate Christmas properly, _milok_." Solo gently brushed a strand of gold from weary, pale eyes. "And I knew I'd want to celebrate when I found you alive."

Kuryakin shook his head bemusedly. "You could not know that you would."

"I knew." For that, the Russian UNCLE agent could find no usual sarcastic retort. He felt Napoleon's arm encircle his waist to pull him closer and allowed it. "You didn't tell us everything, _lyubov_." It wasn't a question -and Illya tilted his brow in acknowledgment. "Will you tell **me**?"

"It sounds like the confession of a madman, Polya."

"Illyusha, I would trust your delusions over most people's facts."

Kuryakin allowed himself a soft laugh. "Like **I **believed you when you told me once that you had been attacked by a girl that would not be killed or stopped?"

Solo offered a pained grin. "Oh... I _think _I'm big enough to forgive that tiny lapse in judgment -besides, it was a long time ago. So..?"

"The THRUSH exploration team found something in one of the ice-core samples. Do you remember how some time ago, an ancient meteorite was found, supposedly bearing the fossilized fragments of Martian bacteria?" Illya did not wait for an answer. "THRUSH records indicated that one of the drillings brought up something new, a charred piece of an unidentified mineral -a meteorite perhaps...millennia old- but hollow like a geode...and something more. A bacteria or a virus -the records were not clear- but not fossilized...a 'dormant' microscopic lifeform for want of better words. Maybe it was prescient foresight, but they did not care to take chances by bringing a new lifeform into Earth's biosphere -they planned to destroy their discovery..."

"...and not tell THRUSH Central?"

"Possibly...but when the fragment was collected for destruction in the incinerators, they discovered all signs of the new bacteria had disappeared." The small Russian caught his partner's fleeting frown -of disbelief? He couldn't blame him. "The madness started soon after, and it happened to our own people as well, but unlike infection by the 'Wilding' virus. There was one victim at a time as if..."

"As if?"

"As if whatever it was had an 'intelligence' -a **plan **and was traveling from person to person, leaving no trace behind save for death."

"Illya, I..."

"Napoleon, I wouldn't believe what I am saying except..."

"'Except'..." Napoleon studied his partner, his lover, and the man had never appeared more certain, more **sane**, but how could he accept this? "Except 'what'?"

"I _saw _it leave Agent Porter's body."

**DECEMBER 27, 12:51 P.M.:**

God...this was intolerable...

April Dancer rubbed at the knot of tension tightening at the base of her skull. She had experienced the full range of human emotion during her relatively short career with UNCLE: the joys, the thrills, the fears -none so intolerable as this. She didn't know what she was feeling. She would have said that she was bored, but she was too anxious to be bored. She was tired, but too tense to consider sleep.

Or was she too afraid?

She didn't know.

Truce aside, no UNCLE agent could completely trust a member of THRUSH, but this..._unknown_ quantity that was a part of the deaths here made the tension worse. Once, the great fear was nuclear; now, it was microscopic. She knew Napoleon Solo well enough to realize that he was thinking along those lines even if he had not said it aloud. So similar... _too _similar to the "Wilding" affair in Toronto not that long ago. It made her wonder, if only for an insane moment, if it was too great a coincidence...if agents of both UNCLE and THRUSH were being used like test subjects in some mysterious experiment.

Napoleon would say that she watched too much television -as if the average UNCLE field agent ever had the time.

Could have _used _a television in here -and a VCR. Odd that there wasn't either in evidence because whichever THRUSH employee had used these quarters originally, he or she had loved to watch videos. There were two dozen of them -April ran a finger along the cases- all classic funny kiddy cartoons. Funny...it had never really occurred to her that anyone who wore the THRUSH emblem _had _a sense of humor. "Hello?" The agent pulled out a bit of paper sticking out from between two video cassettes. "'We have met the enemy and he is us?'" Curious thing to write - a misquote of a famous wartime rallying cry- but perhaps whatever had affected the sanity of those who had lived here had also affected memory.

"Oh, damn..." April found herself forced to sit and began to massage the back of her neck, the physical tension there now exploding into intense pain, but her hands were suddenly batted away by a familiar touch. "April, luv..." The agent's startlement faded at the sound of her partner's voice -how he had snuck up on her, she didn't know...didn't really care as Mark began a rhythmic pressure on the seemingly bruised muscles of her neck, soothing away the pain. A small smile of relief lit April's lips. Ahh...this was nice...would be so easy to drift off to sleep...

She barely noticed as the fingers moved to encircle her throat to cut off her air.

**DECEMBER 27, 12:55 P.M.:**

Napoleon shuddered, but not because of the chill that pervaded every part of this former THRUSH research station. No...somehow, it seemed so much deeper than that. It was the sort of cold dread that one tended with maturity to forget could exist and only a child could fully understand -after all, children _knew _that monsters existed outside of their nightmares...monsters that one could not necessarily see, not even in broad daylight because they were invisible...or just very, very tiny.

It was a temptation right now to take Illya in his arms and whisper: "There, there -it was all nothing more than a nightmare." But he couldn't -for one, his Illyusha loathed to be condescended to...for another, he believed him. Illya had seen a monster. "It left him like a tiny plume of smoke, dark...and at once glittering, and..." Kuryakin seemed to struggle with himself, with words that would not come easily either in English or his mother tongue, before ice-blue eyes met orbs of dark brown.

"For the longest time, the people of my country were told that religion was a panacea to the masses -that there is no God and therefore, no Devil -no true good or evil...but...this _thing_...it _felt_ more corrupt and evil than anything I have ever thought I sensed in any human enemy." A sigh escaped the weary Russian. "Dr. Barret said she could _feel_ it too. We both saw it. She hypothesized that it could have been waiting in the ice for a long time and when it was freed...it traveled from host to host, maybe creating and feeding on the stronger base emotions of puppet killer and victim -the random madness and violence seemed to support her theory, but by then, she herself was showing signs of paranoia -maybe from the fear of not knowing whom to trust. She claimed to have found an answer, but refused to reveal it openly..."

"Maybe she was afraid that she might give it to the _wrong_ person," Napoleon suggested.

"_Da_..." The blond head bobbed in agreement. "She killed herself ...poison...her note said that she couldn't chance being taken by our new enemy and losing the one advantage we might have against it, but she did leave a clue. She said that to find the answer, one had to have a sense of humor and something else..."

Napoleon's fingers moved to interlace with the chilled smaller ones of his partner, feeling the slight tremor there. It was difficult to handle the reality that his normally stoic, often deadpanned partner was afraid...especially when it was that seemingly immovable nature upon which he depended so much, so often, but...he was in love with a man, not a robot. He could never have wanted and then come to love Illya Kuryakin as much as he did, had he not always hoped and then believed that a passionate, truly **feeling **heart beat beneath the chest of the _Ice_ _Prince_.

Gradually, Illya seemed to absorb some of the warmth flowing from his lover...and some of his strength as well. The crystalline eyes that met Napoleon's were once again clear and steady. "What else did she write?"

"It made no sense...a misquote from former times of war. The original is: _We have_ _met the enemy and he is ours_, but she wrote _We have met the enemy and he is **us**_. Madness..."

The elder UNCLE agent's brow furrowed. Something about that saying ... _something_-- "**MR. SOLO!!!**" Jimmy Logan's voice came booming from the intercom. "Come to the ready room -**QUICK!!!**"

A small crowd of both UNCLE and THRUSH had gathered by the time that Napoleon and Illya came racing down the narrow corridor that led to the base's ready room and found themselves witnesses to a sight that neither could believe. Mark Slate and April Dancer were friends as well as partners -everyone knew that. Even THRUSH knew it. But what everyone saw now made that truth a lie. The usually mild-mannered British agent had one hand crushing the back of April's already bruised neck, forcing her to her knees, and in the other hand was a sharp serrated knife which he held directly beneath her chin. "Mark..."

At the sound of his superior's voice, Mark Slate's head snapped up, his eyes wild and staring, a crazed grin distorting his normally cherubic face. "What d'you think guv'ner? Snap her neck all clean and quickly-like? Or slash the carotid artery -messier but oh _so _artistic."

"Mark...don't..." Napoleon allowed his voice to fall to that deceptively gentle timbre he often used to lull a hostile interrogation subject into a false sense of security. "Mark...my friend...you **don't **really want to do this. April's your partner ...your **_friend _**-you **_know _**that, don't you?"

"Mark..." April's voice came out as a feeble whisper. "Fight this...please..."

The answer came in the form of a small, barely heard **pop **and Slate's twisted young visage became a blank as a small burst of blood bloomed from beneath his denim shirt. He fell back against the overburdened video shelf, sending cassettes raining loudly to the tiled floor. Napoleon turned in the direction from which the shot had come. Borodin shrugged and resheathed his weapon. "So? He is not dead. I used a knock-out dart."

"How very kind of-" Solo's voice lodged in his throat, eyes widening as he turned to attend his colleagues -and he wasn't the only one to fall mute. Everyone, even an injured April Dancer, found themselves staring as ..._something_...almost like a tiny, coiling tendril of glittering black smoke, trailed down the corner of the unconscious English UNCLE agent's mouth to pool on the floor...

...but before anyone could think to react, the tiny glittering inky mass coiled upon itself again and darted into a crack between the grimy-green tiles and was gone.

It was _that _fast.

When Solo was able to speak again, it was to order that both Mark and April be taken to the infirmary -Mark, for now, to be restrained. For once, there was no quibbling between opposing agents. No-one seemed to want to be the one to speak first and say: "Did _you _see it too?" No-one needed to -they had **all **seen it. They had all seen the real face of their viral madness.

It was then that something caught the senior UNCLE agent's eye.

**DECEMBER 27, 8:00 P.M.:**

Illya Kuryakin slept the sleep of the truly exhausted -even though it had taken all of Napoleon Solo's considerable powers of persuasion to get his little Russian to give in to the rest he needed...rest that they all needed actually, but couldn't entirely allow themselves. When Napoleon had seen that...that -he shook his head in weary disbelief- when he had seen that _thing_ leave Mark's body, the senior UNCLE agent realized then one horrible truth: the killing madness could enter anyone...could **be **anyone. He also knew in some vague way that it was that realization that had sent his late colleague, Dr. Barret, into the madness of paranoia...and eventual suicide...

...but not before she had left a message.

Something about her last words, about needing to have a sense of humor to find the answer, and that misquote "we have met the enemy and he is us" had suddenly clicked when a particular video case had caught his eye: _Pogo_. It was then that he had remembered a comic character relegated to the almost forgotten fond memories of youth and that the misquote was, in fact, a true quote after all -and a clue. That case had contained Barret's answer: a page of handwritten script in a language Borodin said that he recognized as Icelandic.

With some trepidation, Solo had agreed to allow Borodin to work on the translation with Jimmy Logan at his side -even though Logan's grade-school grasp of the language came from only a trainee's summer tenure at UNCLE's Icelandic headquarters, it was better than nothing. Despite the present situation, he trusted the arrogant Russian THRUSH agent no more than the man probably trusted him ...but they needed answers. No-one could be certain if the thing that had been in Mark's body, and almost certainly the others, was dead or hiding. Lack of cure or containment always came to one end -the absolute destruction of the source of the bio-hazard. By UNCLE or THRUSH -it wouldn't matter.

Napoleon stared uncertainly at the VHS cassette that had rested in the case along with Barret's paper, amazed at the moment of whimsy that had had him search out the lone VCR that had apparently been passed back and forth among the late residents here. Damn it, he wanted -no- _needed _to laugh.

The VHS cassette slid into the VCR with a click and the twelve-inch screen of the attached monitor flickered and crackled to life.

Napoleon Solo's mouth fell open.

Not a cartoon, but another message...

...a security camera tape displaying a scene of former madness...

...of small strong hands wrapping around a struggling and terrified victim's throat...

...of ice-blue eyes partially hidden by flaxen hair as the killer then stared directly at the camera -and smiled...

...we have met the enemy and he is us...

...**_Illya_**...

**DECEMBER 28, 12:21 A.M.:**

Wakefulness came with a violent start.

Heart pounding...

Cold sweat trickled down flushed skin...

...as he struggled to reclaim the faint wisps nightmarish memory. God... What **_was _**it? Had to think... Suddenly, shifting mental images burst into startling clarity behind his tightly closed lids...the moonlight-frosted blond hair that dusted the ice-blue eyes that hovered over him. Does my Polya love me?

You know I do.

Always?

I **love **you, Illyusha -always.

_Da_... I know you do -forever. And you'll never leave me. Not ever. It was then that Napoleon Solo saw the hidden red-stained shiv held at his partner's side -it was too late to react.

A small cry of terror escaped Solo's lips as his eyes snapped open -he hadn't meant to drift off again, and so quickly...into the very same nightmare from which he had awoken. Only, this time, awareness had interfered before that phantom blood-stained knife had cut his dream-self's throat. Why had he started to have night terrors like this?

During his career with UNCLE, he had seen many terrible things. On rare occasions he had been subject to nightmares because of them...but not like this. This was too real...too like the security video he had-- As the senior UNCLE agent shed sleep's torpor, he remembered that he had fallen asleep watching those damning images playing themselves over and over again...Illya's hands closing around a young agent's neck (Clarke or Porter, he didn't know which as he had met neither) crushing the life out of him. "You should have woken me...told me this tape survived..._shown_ me this."

The accented voice of his partner, softly spoken, drew Napoleon's attention. Illya was sitting on the cold floor before the VCR, his attention glued to the grainy black and white images that played themselves in an endless loop...images of himself. Napoleon drew up to the small Russian from behind, placing hands around thin but broad, rigid shoulders, feeling only a little of the tension bleed out of them at his touch. "Illyusha...you were exhausted."

Ice-blue eyes met dark brown. "Polya, you didn't coddle me before we became lovers." Illya returned his attention to the screen. "Please...do not start now. I had a right to know this as soon as you did -it explains so many things...the nightmares ...the blackouts I put down to stress. _Bozhe moi_...to know what happened to others and to realize that I was directly a part of it."

Napoleon began to kneed the stiffened shoulders. "You are as much a victim as any of the others. It _wasn't _you. No matter what you see there, Illya -you were no more at fault than when Barnaby Partridge had you programmed to kill me. A carrier of this...disease is no more than a puppet manipulated by strings."

"But such specific, apparently deliberately _planned _acts of violence..."

"**_You're_** the scientist, my Illyusha." Napoleon brushed a stubbled cheek again the pale skin of Illya's jaw. "You, yourself, know that illness or injury can sometimes produce seemingly conscious acts."

Smaller fingers were tentatively drawn down the shadowed jaw that brushed his own -Illya met his partner's eyes. "I want to believe you."

"You **can **believe me."

Illya nodded as he silently sank back against Napoleon's firm chest, allowing himself the indulgence of the moment. Just then, a thought... "Napasha..?"

"Hmn?"

"Polya...when Mark comes to, we should ask him about his dreams."

Napoleon arched an eyebrow quizzically. "Why?"

"Dr. Barret found it to be the one non-physical symptom formerly infected attackers shared after the fact -a nightmarish recollection of their violent behavior ...at least, that is what she said."

At Illya's words, Napoleon frowned at the faint impression of a memory ...hands ...something about hands crushing the life from... He shook his head slightly -the impression faded. "As you wish, _milok_."

**DECEMBER 28, 5:15 A.M.:**

"It's not a cure...not even an inoculation. It's more like a temporary preventative measure."

In what once passed as a lab, an uneasy gathering of surviving members of UNCLE and THRUSH waited and listened as UNCLE's Dr. Brewer explained the results of the combined efforts of herself, Jimmy Logan, and THRUSH operative Pavel Borodin. "From Dr. Barret's notes, we've learned that whatever this viral lifeform we are dealing with actually is, it apparently needs either the energy output created by violent emotion or the biological chemicals involved in such episodes...as further evidenced by the entity's abrupt withdrawal from Mark's body once he was tranquilized..."

Slate chanced a glance at his partner. "April...luv...I--"

Dancer, hesitantly at first, placed a hand over Mark's and then squeezed it gently. "It wasn't your fault." She saw the look on the Englishman's young face -easy to accept the truth intellectually, somewhat more difficult emotionally...and _she _had been the one attacked.

"And you want to give us _what_ -a _tranquilizer_?" Illya asked, openly incredulous. "What will that do except render us chemically drunk?"

"Not at a low dose, _tovarisch _-as you should know, one can be rendered quiescent and yet remain coherent and fully functional," Borodin retorted almost churlishly. "If our enemy needs strong emotion to survive, a state of calm may provide us with a necessary breathing space to find a cure -and time is running out."

Napoleon frowned. "Care to explain that?"

Borodin nodded to his remaining subordinate. "I was able to receive several partial transmissions," Nigel offered quietly. "The storm appears to be breaking up -and when it does, it is certain that representatives of either both or one of our organizations will converge on this area posthaste."

"Either as reconnaissance -in which case they chance becoming victims themselves," Solo said, understanding immediately. "Or they will initiate a 'cleansing' operation. Very well..."

"Wait!" April interrupted, glancing away from the doctor. "How do we know -I mean..." The question was left hanging, but they all knew what the female agent was asking: _'How do we know_ _that we can trust **you**?'_

Brewer nodded, comprehending. She displayed a small clear bottle. "This is Lorazepam, an anti-anxiety medication -my own prescription." She shook out a tiny, white pill and took it, displaying the fact that she had actually swallowed the minuscule tablet. "In small, short-term doses it is used to treat panic attacks. It does not, in the dose I just took, make you 'chemically drunk'. It may, however, give us the breathing space Agent Borodin described." She held out the bottle.

Mark shrugged and accepted the pale thin caplet. "I've always wondered what it'd be like to expand my mind." He swallowed the pill with a grimace. April joined him. Borodin coolly followed along with his subordinate, Nigel. Jimmy Logan swallowed a pill, gagging. Dr. Brewer approached Napoleon and Illya and extended the bottle. "Agents..?"

It happened without warning.

There was a blur of motion, the vial of medication went flying, and Dr. Brewer was held, an UNCLE Special held to her temple. "No...agents...I think that **I **will refuse your offering."

A stranger stood before them...

...as though someone had taken away the person they knew and had put an identical changeling in his place.

It was Illya's voice and it wasn't.

It was Illya...and it wasn't.

Movement had all but frozen after the violent reaction that had sent medicated nodules flying into the air and agents of both THRUSH and UNCLE scrambling for their weapons...only to be forced to stop and wait. Uncertain. Confused. Stricken by the unnaturalness of this situation; that an UNCLE agent -that Illya Kuryakin- had taken a hostage. It _was _Illya and it wasn't...

Napoleon recognized the expression on his partner's pale visage as the Russian held the gun to Dr. Brewer's temple -he had seen it on that security video tape. Usually, when Illya allowed himself to smile, it was a rare and beautiful thing to behold -this was different...alien...malevolent -as openly ghastly as the murky sanguine hue that had begun to overshadow eyes of ice-blue.

This was no disease. This was something far more terrible. "Illya..." The name, softly spoken, broke the silence as the senior UNCLE agent made a tentative movement forward. "Listen to me-"

The hand that had clamped itself below a semi-conscious Dr. Brewer's jaw tightened as the one holding the UNCLE Special whipped out and fired thrice in quick succession. Blood exploded from the ruined chests of THRUSH agent Nigel and UNCLE agent Logan -they never even felt it. A once hidden gun flew from Mark Slate's hand as a bullet found its target in his outstretched arm.

It all happened in the space of seconds.

"Illya" immediately turned the muzzle of his weapon back to Dr. Brewer's temple, glittering eyes of blood-red focusing on one horror-stricken blood-splattered UNCLE Chief Enforcement Agent. "It is said that the human species survives by its ability to learn and adapt. Have **you **learned?"

"_Learn!_" April snapped in anguish as she struggled to bind the flowing wound in Mark's forearm. Nigel and Logan were beyond needing any help. "What are we supposed to learn!"

"Illya's" smile became vulpine. "Fear."

Solo's chest began to heave against his rapidly pounding heart. Dr. Barret had been right. His partner had been right -whatever had attacked or controlled its victims was evil incarnate. If he had ever doubted Illya's wisdom before, he did so no longer. Only something of true evil would kill just to prove that it could...just to drink in the terror of the witnesses that remained. If only he had acted on his suspicions sooner. "What -no- **who **are you?"

The thing within moved its Russian host to smile all the wider. "I am...that which survived the crash of its ship of metal and rock after the travails of space many millennia ago...a crash which left me on a hot primitive world, ripe with the primal emotions and instincts of its brutish inhabitants - a larder full to the brim with my food."

"You...feed on animal emotions..." Napoleon struggled to clear his thoughts -not much time... "You...feed on rage, hate, fear..."

"_And_ I create them!" There was a slight, echoing laugh. "I would have made this life-rich world my feeding ground, but for the age of cold and ice that came soon after my arrival and trapped me here."

"Until my people released you, " Borodin said, coldly, eyes narrowing, "and you destroyed them."

"**I** hungered and I **fed**."

"And now you will destroy us too...to keep your secrets."

"Not necessarily..." The false smile on the Russian UNCLE agent's face faded. "Unless you disobey."

Napoleon locked sight with the being that peered at him through his lover's eyes. "**_What_** do you want?"

"Your silence concerning my existence when your rescue teams arrive -and you **will **encourage this. I have waited too long in my prison of ice, listening to the echoes of humanity's growth. I have suffered the sickening spirit of love and peace espoused by the Nazarene as certainly as my appetite has been whet by the terror and despair created by those armies that adorned themselves with the mark of the crooked cross. It is only in this age that I have come to know of a fellow, though lesser, microform that has the power to provide me with food as I require in what manner I require...in order to spawn."

A cold finger of dread trailed down Napoleon's spine. It knew. Somehow, maybe from those it had possessed, it _knew. _The enemy nodded at his unspoken realization. "You will give me the 'Wilding' virus."

Solo's expression hardened. "If you want **that**, you'll need help," he said coldly, ignoring Mark and April's horrified expressions. "Let my partner go and allow **me **to take you to it."

"You...would willingly allow me to enter you?" came the incredulous question. "Why should I believe that?"

"If you are in my partner's mind as well as his body, you know that I...happen to love him." Solo's words came out with an effort. "I am _in _love with him and I would sacrifice myself for his sake." He paused. "And your 'feeding ground' will need some people to live...to serve. Better a live slave than a dead hero."

"Love..." The word was hissed like the vilest profanity. "An emotion that is putrid in savor and of little worth. However...there is merit to your suggestion. Perhaps I should have stayed when I made use of you that once." Napoleon flinched. "Higher rank allows you access that this one does not yet possess, but..." Sanguinous eyes scanned the small group of humans. "...I have only your word there will be no interference."

"On the contrary," Borodin said as he carefully removed a small pistol from his jacket -and then aimed it at the UNCLE agents huddled on the blood-soaked floor. "I have no desire to die either. They will obey -or shall I kill them now?"

"Humans...so little appreciation for the true terror of a drawn-out death..." The possessed Russian shoved the dazed doctor to the floor. "Mind them for now and you will survive to serve." A hand was extended to Napoleon.

"Come to me."

Napoleon Solo, Chief Enforcement Officer of UNCLE, steeled himself.

In any other situation, this would have been the sweet realization of a dream in his growing relationship with his much loved and intensely private partner, to show their love in public -but that wasn't their way...

...and this wasn't a dream.

It was a nightmare.

The thing that wore Illya Kuryakin's body like a suit, repeated the words that ordinarily would have brought them both great joy..._Come to me_...its/Illya's mouth drawn into a rigid smile that was more like a sneer...and Solo knew what it was to be truly afraid. But not of dying. No...not of dying...of actually sharing his being with that **_thing_**...even if only for a short while. But he had chosen. Smaller, cold hands reached up and roughly pulled his head down, closer to the pallid countenance of the man he knew as partner, friend , and lover -and their lips met. _Harshly_. _Hungrily_. There was a cruelty the senior agent had never known of his lover and friend as the microscopic monster within sought out its new refuge.

There was silence as three UNCLE operatives and one THRUSH jailer looked on in the paralysis of horrified fascination.

The seemingly endless moment probably lasted no more than a minute in actuality before Kuryakin fell bonelessly to the floor, insensate, and Solo stepped aside, his once dark eyes ablaze with the same malevolent radiance that had burned in his partner's eyes only seconds ago. "**Yes!**" A venomous grin distorted the handsome face. "This form will serve me well! Borodin, rid me of these witnesses and contact your people! I am eager to be free of this prison of ice...of..." The twisted smile on Solo's face suddenly faded, replaced by an expression of growing dread. "...of... I... **No!** Something...something is wrong!" The suddenly enraged glare turned on the agents of both organizations. "You have done something...to this body! **What **have you done!!!"

Borodin's lips turned with an expression that was as cold as the possessed agent's was twisted. "What have **you **learned, intruder? Are you yet learning that the confusion **you **created made it possible for Solo to grab and ingest **five **times the dosage **we **took? Are you _**learning** _now that **you **are going to die!"

"**NO!**" An inhuman shriek of denial burst from the possessed agent's mouth as he almost literally threw himself to the blood-sodden tiles, his body jerking in one great, violent convulsion. Despite herself, April screamed. "**_Look!_**" From the corner of Napoleon's mouth, a tiny, dark glittering tendril seemed to be struggling its way out of its failing host.

"I do not think so." There was the hiss of compressed air and a dart from the THRUSH agent's gun imbedded itself in the thrashing UNCLE agent's shoulder. Impossible though it should have been, the slithering microform shrieked, finally falling to the gore-stained tiles...and was still.

Glittering black became dull grey and then almost the white of ashes as substance corrupted before disbelieving witnesses' eyes, and became less than dust...which was caught and dispersed by a single stray draft.

Borodin handed the dart gun to April Dancer. "Dr. Brewer, I suggest you attend your new patients as well."

Mark forced himself to his feet, grimacing at the pain in his wounded arm. "Since when does THRUSH help UNCLE?"

"We do not." This time, the smile was genuine. "We simply do whatever is required to survive...and **_I_** prefer to deal with the enemy that I know."

**DECEMBER 31, 11:35 P.M.:**

"Polya..."

"Um..?"

"Polya...please wake for me."

"Hmmn..." Napoleon Solo murmured as a cool hand was placed against his brow. Um yes, felt rather nice... Lovely voice too... All at once, he found himself gazing into a pair of eyes he had always called "ice-blue" and yet, now, gazed at him with a greater warmth and open concern than he had ever known. "Illyusha..."

"_Da_..."

"...where..?"

"The medical section of UNCLE's headquarters in Argentina." Kuryakin shrugged. "Quarantine, of course." He fussed with the slightly crumpled white sheet that covered his partner to the shoulders. "This is getting to be a habit with us."

"Um...yes...it is indeed..." The words, Illya's and his own, filtered through the effects of days' worth of medications, lingering mental phantoms, and half-recalled nightmares as Napoleon struggled to shake off the last of the chemically-induced confusion. He barely remembered the hurried emergency flight on the UNCLE reconnaissance aircraft that had finally arrived after the Antarctic storm's break. He certainly didn't remember the efforts of the team of doctors and nurses to save him from the effects of too heavy a dose of a prescription narcotic and the contents of a THRUSH tranquilizing dart...

...but there _was _a faint memory of soft, cool hands holding his and a voice, full of worry, gently entreating him in Russian and English to waken. "Are we..?"

"Clear, Napoleon. We are clear of it."

Napoleon sank back against his pillows -he didn't to ask which "it" Illya had meant any more than Illya had had to ask _him _to complete the question. A part of him had hoped against reason that whole affair had been just one long horrible nightmare, but it hadn't been...and he knew it...and would remember it all for a long time to come. "What about Mark and April? What about Brewer?"

"Healing...but in a different section of the quarantine area." A slightly embarrassed grin touched the normally stoic countenance as the Russian tried to further lighten the mood and distance them from grim memories that were still too fresh. "I...made the suggestion that we might need some privacy."

"Um, yes...privacy for when I'm a little stronger, hmn?" There was a low answering chuckle. "And Borodin?"

"There was an exchange arranged -him for two of our captured agents. It went well." Illya paused, suddenly uncertain whether to speak. "He helped us, Polya -Mark and April told me that."

"Until the next time."

"_Da_... Until the next time."

Napoleon sighed aloud before gently drawing his fingers through strands of gold silk. "Not exactly the vacation I promised you, was it?"

"No...but I forgive you." The Russian's smile was genuine as he bent forward and brushed Napoleon's lips with his own. "As long as you do not pull such a foolish stunt again. We -I- almost lost you. I...do not know if I could forgive **that**."

Napoleon pulled his unprotesting partner against him. "We'll see."

"Napoleon?"

"Yes, _lyubov_?"

"The nightmare -do you think it is over?"

Napoleon thought for a moment, pondering the sterilization procedures that UNCLE would use and then nodded. "Yes," he said. "It's finally all over."

EPILOGUE:

**JANUARY 01, 12:01 A.M.:**

The rotation of harrier blades whipped in a continuous arc, creating a steady wind that sent particles of frozen vapor flying into bitterly cold air.

Below that mechanical drone, words were hurriedly exchanged and operatives belonging to both UNCLE and THRUSH exited the now truly abandoned Antarctic research station, each group bearing away an airtight biohazard container in which sat an ice-core sample, both groups only just escaping the all-consuming explosion they had worked together to set.

It **_wasn't _**all over.

--The End--

_"We have met the enemy and he is us" & "POGO" by Walt Kelly_

_minor references to **"The Man From UNCLE"** episodes : "The Sort of Do-It -Yourself Dreadful Affair" & "The THRUSH Roulette Affair"_


End file.
